


Tomorrow Will Come

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blind Date, Drinking Games, Groundhog Day, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 04:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15356763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: He’s only doing this to shut Dom and Mal up about this “great guy”.





	Tomorrow Will Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mycitruspocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycitruspocket/gifts).



> For Inception Bingo, I'm making a stab at four four-trope stories, one for each column on my card, for a total blackout.  
> Here goes ...
> 
> Thank you to my lovely friend mycitruspocket, who knows Groundhog Day far better than I do and was most helpful, as always.

**One**

Arthur is waiting on a bench across the street from the coffee shop he’s agreed to meet at. Reluctantly agreed to meet at. He’s only doing this to shut Dom and Mal up about this “great guy”. And he wants to be able to flee if he seems just too … too what? Too much. Arthur is perfectly happy, thank you, with his life and he doesn’t need some “great guy” wrecking his equilibrium, knocking things over, stirring things up. Of course Dom, who dropped everything and travelled to Paris a week after meeting Mal, refuses to understand why Arthur would want to maintain his neat and orderly life, as unruffled as his combed hair, as well-fitting as his suits.

So he’s sitting on the bench, on the shadowed side of the street, watching people going into the coffee shop, trying to assess which is the “great guy”. Whose name is _Eames_ , of all things. To decide if he’s going to go through with this absurd blind date. Who even does that? Meet a stranger, the friend of a friend, for coffee on a Saturday morning, when he actually has things he needs to be doing.

So far, none of the men who’ve gone into the coffee shop seem like the one he’s supposed to be meeting. Not that Mal’s description had been all that useful. “Ah, Eames, he has a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , an air.”

“He’s got brown hair. And tattoos,” Dom had added. 

Not very helpful here in hipster central, thinks Arthur, as yet another guy with a capital-H Haircut and tatts pushes open the door to the shop. He’s about to give it up and get on with his Saturday when a guy with messy brownish hair and at least one visible tattoo rushes up the street, practically running, and goes into the shop. Arthur crosses over — narrowly missing being crushed by a speeding car — just as the guy comes back out, frowning at his watch. 

Rattled, Arthur raises a hand. “Hello. I’m Arthur.”

The guy smiles, his eyes lighting up with relief. “Eames,” he says. “I thought I’d missed you. Stood you up. Sorry.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m having a bit of a day,” he says. “Hello, Arthur.”

His hand is big and rough. His eyes are a weird undefinable shade of not-quite-green and his mouth, curved in a smile is … well, it’s ridiculous.

“Hello,” says Arthur, again, feeling stiff in the face of this warmth. “We don’t have to do this. If you’re busy.”

“What? No, that’s not … of course we must. A man has to drink coffee.” He turns and opens the door, gesturing Arthur in in a weirdly old-fashioned way. Which matches his odd vintage-looking clothes.

As they find a table, Eames says: “So how do you know Mal?”

“I know Dom, really. We were at college together. And we work together sometimes. I’m a project manager.”

“You make sure the fantasies actually get built?” 

They’d met in architecture school, and stayed friends afterwards, even though Arthur had given up design for the necessary task of actually getting things built. Even though Dom often told him how boring he thought Arthur’s job was. “Yes,” he says. “I count bricks. How do you know them?”

“Mal came to a show.” He shrugs. “I’m a starving artist.”

Of course, Arthur thinks, another dreamer, they crowd together.

Out loud, he says: “What sort of art?”

“Conceptual,” says Eames. “Bit hard to describe.”

“Try me,” says Arthur, bristling. He may count bricks for a living, but he also went to architecture school, and hung around with artists in his day. When the waiter has taken their orders, Arthur prompts him again: “Your art?”

“Yeah. It’s performance, and language … it sounds like pretentious bullshit. Probably is.” He laughs. “Tell me about bricks.” He’s clearly not going to be more forthcoming.

“You don’t really want to talk about bricks,” says Arthur, distracted by the crooked teeth Eames’ laugh revealed.

“What’s your favourite brick? Red brick? Yellow brick? Cinder block? Or do you actually prefer cedar planks? Concrete stole your heart?”

“Dom does like concrete. Big Brutalist slabs of it,” Arthur concedes. “It can be interesting. Exciting even. A big concrete pour, getting it right, getting everything co-ordinated.”

Eames raises an eyebrow and Arthur feels foolish, letting his enthusiasm for organisation run away from him. It’s a relief when their drinks arrive. Arthur drinks off his habitual espresso in one swallow and then has to watch Eames lick cappuccino foam off his top lip.

There’s a crash over by the window and then the outraged sobbing of a kid. _God, this morning is going from bad to worse._

To cover his irritation and awkwardness, he glances at his watch. “Oh god, it’s got late. I’ve got a thing …” He gestures vaguely, hoping he’ll seem busy, not like what he is, someone running out on a date because he’s too out of practice to make adequate small talk. Still, he’ll tell Mal and Dom he tried, that it didn’t work out. Maybe that will shut them up. He hasn’t got time for some disorganised conceptual “artist”. Whatever the fuck that means anyway.

“Oh.” Eames frowns. “Sorry. I kept you waiting. Of course you have better things to do.”

Arthur takes out his wallet. “At least let me get this. Bricks pay better than art, probably.” He puts some bills on the table. “Bye, Eames. It was nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” says Eames, and Arthur can hear the irony in his voice as he walks away, spine straight, shoulders tense.

_Well, that went about as well as he knew it would. So much for a “great guy”_.

***

Arthur can’t sleep, as usual. The kids two floors down are holding a noisy party and there are apparently 20 people crammed onto their tiny balcony. The ribaldry of a drinking game floats up, mocking him. He couldn’t even make small talk over coffee, sometimes it feels like he’ll never get invited to a stupid noisy party ever again. Eames is certainly the type who does. He probably throws them too. Legendary parties that people talk about for years. Arthur’s still in a sour mood as he turns over and punches his pillow for the tenth time.

**Two**

Arthur’s phone wakes him, as it always does, weekday or weekend, at 7am. He glances at the news as he stretches, he has no obligations today. No, that’s not right. Fuck, he has to meet that guy for coffee. Something vague tugs at his mind. Something feels a bit off, but he can’t pin the feeling down, so he gets out of bed and goes to take a shower.

Why did he agree to this stupid coffee date? Anything to shut Mal up, going on about this “great guy”, this guy with a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , this Eames. She hadn’t told him much more though, so Arthur’s sort of intrigued despite himself.

He waits on a bench on the other side of the street from the coffee shop, to see if he can spot Eames first. “Brown hair, tattoos”, had been Dom’s description, and that could be almost anyone. Arthur’s about to leave and get on with his day when a guy arrives almost at a run. Brown hair, at least one tattoo, that must be him. Arthur is crossing the street — he sees a speeding car in time to avoid it — as the guy steps back out of the shop, frowning at his watch.

“Hi, sorry I’m late. I’m Arthur,” says Arthur, stepping onto the curb, a little breathless from his near miss.

The guy smiles, his eyes lighting up with relief. “Eames,” he says. “I thought I’d missed you. Stood you up. Sorry.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m having a bit of a day,” he says. “Hello, Arthur.”

Arthur’s a bit thrown by the proffered hand, but he takes it. Eames’ hand is big and warm, and his eyes are … are they blue, or gray, or green? Hard to say. And his smile — Arthur can’t help smiling in response. “Hello, Eames.”

Eames holds the shop door open for him, an old-fashioned gesture that matches his overall slightly vintage air.

“So how do you know Mal, Arthur?”

Arthur explains that he actually knows Dom better, since architecture school, even though he’s moved on to project management. “I count bricks,” he says with a laugh. Eames smiles in response. “How do you know them?” Arthur asks.

“Mal came to a show. I’m an artist.”

“What sort of art?”

“Conceptual,” says Eames. “Bit hard to describe.”

“Try me,” says Arthur, finding himself intrigued by Eames’ odd mixture of formality and off-kilter charm. His brown hair, which had been ruffled by the haste of his arrival, has been smoothed back down to neatness, a tiny hint of a quiff in front. He looks like a man in an old family photograph.

“It’s a blend of performance and language. Some people think it’s pretentious bullshit.” He laughs, revealing crooked front teeth that have no right to be as appealing as Arthur finds them.

“Mysterious,” says Arthur, “Guess I’ll have to come to a show.” 

Eames smiles again. “Your turn, tell me about these bricks you count.”

“You don’t want to know about bricks,” says Arthur, but he’s smiling too.

“What’s your favourite brick? Red brick? Yellow brick? Cinder block? Or do you actually prefer cedar planks? Concrete stole your heart?”

It’s ridiculous, but Arthur can’t help himself, recounting the tension and excitement of getting a big concrete pour for one of Dom’s beloved Brutalist slabs just right. Seeing the gorgeous texture created by the planks of the formwork imprinted on the surface. Eames is still smiling at him, his eyes — the soft gray of concrete — lighting up; his mouth ridiculously full and curving.

When their coffees arrive, Arthur is sorry he ordered an espresso, like every day. It’s not a drink to linger over, and he finds he actually wants to linger.

“I should have got one of those,” he says, as Eames licks foam off his top lip.

“Go on, then,” says Eames, “You can change your mind. We’ve got time.”

So Arthur signals to the waiter, looking over his shoulder in time to see a kid tip his chair back and then fall with a crash, which sets off outraged sobbing. Again an odd feeling tugs at his mind, a feeling of familiarity, of having been here before, but he shrugs it off as ordinary déjà vu.

After they have lingered over their coffees, Eames looks at his watch.

“This is awkward,” he says. “I actually do have something I have to do. I said I’d go and look at a performance space. My mate Yusuf’s going to drive me.”

Letting all thought of the rest of his plans go completely, Arthur says: “I have my car down the street, I could take you.”

This blind date, which he’d agreed to so reluctantly, is turning out far better than he could have hoped, and he doesn’t want it to end so soon.

“It’s all the way over in Hoboken,” says Eames, “It’ll take hours, I’m sure you have other things to do.”

“No really, I’d be happy to take you,” says Arthur, hoping he’s not forcing Eames into spending more time with him than he wants.

“Okay, then, thanks,” says Eames. “I’m sure your car is faster and more comfortable than Yusuf’s old banger. I’ll just let him know I don’t need him today.”

Arthur likes his Audi, loves driving fast, but he doesn’t get a chance to drive it on the highway all that often.

“Much better than Yusuf’s!” says Eames, grinning, as Arthur pushes it to the speed limit and even a bit beyond. They have the windows down and the breeze is moulding Eames’ shirt to his chest, and blowing Arthur’s hair in his eyes.

“It’s almost like a road trip,” he says, raising his voice above the thrum of the tires and taking his eyes off the road briefly to meet Eames’ smile. 

The “space” is a crumbling old warehouse, and Arthur watches as Eames walks around muttering to himself, looking up to a catwalk above. He can’t imagine what Eames’ performance might entail and he’s too shy to ask.

Finally, Eames is done. “It’s perfect,” he says. “I can picture the whole thing. Let’s go get a drink to celebrate.”

“Okay,” Arthur agrees, although he really shouldn’t, if he’s going to drive. “One.”

***

Later, after they’ve driven back mostly in silence, but not uncomfortable silence — Eames still lost in planning apparently — Arthur lies in bed listening to the sounds of a neighbour’s party. It’s a while since he last went to that sort of raucous event. Eames probably throws them, maybe he’ll throw one after his show, Arthur thinks as he turns over to go to sleep. 

**Three**

Arthur’s phone wakes him at 7am, and he gets up without even looking at the news. He’s meeting that friend of Mal’s for coffee. It’s been a while since he had a date of any kind, and he’s usually far too careful for a blind date, but Mal had been persuasive — Eames was gorgeous, she’d said, and interesting, with a certain _je ne sais quoi._ He didn’t really sound the type to be interested in Arthur, with his ordinary, orderly life, but Mal is often a good judge of character, so he had agreed. 

He’s still cautious, though, so he gets there early and waits on a bench opposite, trying to see if he can tell who it is. Dom had chimed in that he had “brown hair and tattoos”, which was as much about another man as Dom would ever notice, but doesn’t really narrow the field.

But when a guy comes up the street at a run (brown hair, tatts) and goes inside the coffee shop, Arthur is sure he’s the one. He’s crossing the street — having waited and avoided a speeding car that he feels he somehow expected — when the guy steps back out, frowning at his watch. As he gets closer, Arthur sees that Mal had not exaggerated, he really is gorgeous, his eyes a magical shade of green-gray, his shoulders solid under a soft, striped shirt. And his mouth, _oh god,_ _please let this be his date!_ Arthur raises a hand. “Hi, so sorry I’m late. I’m Arthur.”

The guy smiles, his eyes lighting up with relief. “Eames,” he says. “I thought I’d missed you. Stood you up. Sorry.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m having a bit of a day,” he says. “Hello, Arthur.”

His hand is warm, dry, a bit rough, bigger than Arthur’s, and his mouth is curved in a smile that goes all the way to his pretty eyes, far warmer than Arthur probably deserves right now, but he’ll take it.

Eames holds the door open for Arthur, which is really charming, in a sort of old-fashioned way that goes with his vintage shirt and careful retro hairstyle.

“So how do you know Mal?” he asks as they find a table.

He explains about Dom and Mal, how he ran off to Paris after her and then brought her back. How they’ve stayed occasional collaborators since Arthur quit architecture for project management. “I count bricks,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, which makes Eames smile. “How do you know them?” Arthur asks.

“Mal came to a show. I’m an artist,” says Eames.

“What sort of art?”

“Conceptual. Bit hard to describe.”

“Try me.” Arthur didn’t just study architecture, he took some theory of art courses, and he’s been to some pretty outre shows. And the more he keeps Eames talking, the more he can watch his ridiculous, lovely mouth, see his eyes light up. 

Eames grins. “Okay. It’s performance. And language. Written on the body. My body. In time … and space. God, no wonder people think it’s pretentious bullshit!” He laughs, revealing crooked teeth that somehow take his gorgeousness to a different, even more interesting place.

“Not everyone, though, surely. I’m intrigued. I’d love to see it.”

“I’ve got a show soon, so you can. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though!”

A waiter comes by for their orders —“Espresso,” says Arthur, like he always does, but when Eames orders a cappuccino, he changes his mind and asks for one too — and when he’s gone, Eames leans back in his chair. “Tell me about bricks,” he prompts.

“Oh, you don’t want to hear about bricks,” says Arthur, but he laughs. He’s enjoying himself far too much to feel self-conscious about his job, all order and precision.

“I do though,” says Eames. “What’s your favourite brick? Red brick? Yellow brick? Cinder block? Or do you actually prefer cedar planks? Concrete stole your heart?”

It’s ridiculous, but Eames described his art, so Arthur has to try. “Dom does like a big, Brutalist slab of concrete,” he says, “And it’s pretty exciting getting it just right. Concrete’s lovely, actually. It can look soft, it keeps the marks of the planks of the formwork, if it’s done well. It’s a gorgeous gray.” Like your eyes, he isn’t quite bold enough to say.

“You’ll have to show me some gorgeous concrete,” says Eames. So it’s not just Arthur, wanting to see Eames again.

As the waiter brings their coffees, Arthur glances over towards the window, where a little kid is tipping his chair back on two legs.

“Hang on a minute,” he says to Eames, getting up and crossing the room just in time to catch the boy as he falls.

“How did you …?” Eames says as Arthur sits down again.

“Know he was going to fall? I have no idea. I just had this feeling. I have that bad habit, but it’s safer when your legs are longer. I guess I just looked over at the right moment.” Arthur shrugs. That weird feeling of déjà vu just won’t leave him alone.

After they’ve lingered over their big, frothy coffees, the talk ranging easily, Eames looks at his watch. 

“This is a bit awkward,” he says. “I said I’d go look at a space where I might perform. I’d rather not, but I can’t stand them up. My mate Yusuf’s going to drive me. I’m really sorry.”

Thrusting aside worries about whether it would be extending the date beyond what is comfortable, far beyond what he would normally do, Arthur says: “I can drive you. I’d like to. My car’s just down the block.”

“Are you sure? It’s all the way over in Hoboken. It’ll take hours.”

“That’s okay,” says Arthur. “More than okay.” And it really is. It’s ages since he felt this comfortable with someone he’s just met. And there’s that feeling he can’t shake, that somehow they haven’t just met.

Eames gives a low whistle when he sees Arthur’s red Audi. Arthur loves it, and he loves driving fast. It’s a waste, really, in the city. As he pulls onto the highway, he lowers the windows and once traffic thins out, presses hard on the gas. Eames laughs delightedly, and Arthur glances over. The wind is blowing his hair into his eyes, moulding Eames’ shirt to his chest. “It’s like a road trip!” Arthur almost shouts. It feels so good to cut loose like this, to take a chance on Eames.

The space Eames is inspecting is an old warehouse, gorgeous soft red brick and heavy beams. Eames walks around talking to the owner, looking up at the catwalk across one end. Arthur is content to watch. Finally, with a firm handshake Eames apparently agrees terms and comes over to where Arthur is standing on the loading dock.

“It’s perfect,” he says. “I’m excited to put on the show here, it’ll be great! The catwalk up there is just right for the projections. I hope you’ll come?”

“Of course,” says Arthur.

“Come celebrate then? Get a drink?”

“Love to.” Arthur is usually very careful, but one drink will be okay. It’ll cap off this weird, brilliant day.

In the first bar they found — the TV is tuned to a sports match and everyone is wearing ball caps, it’s the sort of place Arthur would normally avoid with a shudder — Eames says: “I can’t believe I thought you sounded a bit dry, when Mal suggested we meet.”

“What did she say about me?” It’s probably a mistake to ask.

Eames smiles. “Not much. ‘An old friend of Dominic’s. Likes order. Wears very good suits. Beautiful eyes.’ So far I can only confirm the last one.”

Arthur blushes. 

“Maybe you’ll wear a ‘very good suit’ on our next date.”

Arthur smiles at Eames, really smiles, letting all his dimples come out. “Maybe I will,” he says, and finishes his drink to cover his confusion.

Then: “This already feels like another date,” he says, taking a risk. The feeling that’s been getting stronger all day, of déjà vu, or something even stranger, of having lived this day more than once, is too real to ignore any longer.

He sits up straighter, even squares his shoulders. “You’ll think I’m crazy,” he starts. 

Eames’ forehead creases in puzzlement. “Try me,” he says.

“Do you feel like we’ve met before? No, wait, that’s not it. Do you feel like this day has been repeating?”

“Repeating?”

“Yes. I can’t quite put a finger on it, but it feels almost as if I got a do-over. A reset. I feel as if I didn’t make a very good first impression, but I got another chance.”

“You made a fine first impression. A great first impression. I was sure I’d kept you waiting, that I seemed a disorganised mess. But you were lovely, Arthur.”

Arthur’s head feels a bit fuzzy, like the end of a long evening. And then he remembers: “You know that kid who was tipping his chair? You asked me how I realised he was about to fall, in time to stop him? And I said I saw him swinging and assumed he might fall? Well, I _knew_ he was going to fall, because he _did_ the other two times.”

“The other two times?”

The feeling has got clear outlines now, like a dream when you wake up at exactly the right moment. “Yes. I experienced today twice before. I just kept waking up on Saturday morning. The first time, I really didn’t want to even meet up, and I let you think you were late, and I was so prickly. I was sure you were laughing at me about my favourite brick — it’s old red brick like your warehouse, by the way — and I let you think I thought your art was—”

“Pretentious bullshit?” says Eames, but he’s smiling.

“Yes, oh god,” Arthur can feel his ears burning with embarrassment, but he presses on, “and I couldn’t make conversation, so I ran out. After I insulted you about money. Fuck!”

“What are you going on about? You were perfectly lovely. You didn’t laugh at my art. Which I’m well aware is hard to grasp. We’ve had a brilliant day, haven’t we, Arthur?”

“You mean it’s just me? Living the day over and over?”

“I’ve only had one date with you, this one. But I hope we have more, lots more.”

“Me too,” says Arthur.

And they sit there, smiling at each other as the noise of the bar swirls around them. Until Eames says: “Shall we go? Because I want to kiss you, but not here.”

“On our first date?” says Arthur.

“It’s your third, and I’m a bit forward, I suppose,” says Eames, standing up and holding his hand out to Arthur. It’s big and warm, and up close, even in the dim light, his eyes are gray-green-blue and his mouth is ridiculously lovely. Arthur leans in and kisses him. Just a brush of lips. A promise of more, because tomorrow will come, and they will see each other again, and again, he knows. 

***

Arthur’s phone wakes him, and he glances at the date: Sunday. He doesn’t get up, just stretches and lies there, remembering the day before. His date with Eames. 

A text pings: “Would you have dinner with me? A ‘fourth’ date?”

Arthur can’t help his smile as he texts: “You _are_ a bit forward and I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> As you can tell, I hit some tropes better than others. I hope you'll forgive me. They didn't want to do as I told them.


End file.
